That sounded almost like an insult, but she wasn’t about to argue the point. Instead she watched as he flexed his knee again. “Is that where you received your splinter?”
Sullivan nodded. “The bandage is holding, so I won’t trouble about it. So you or Zephyr, poppet?”
She liked when he called her poppet. He placed it where someone of her own rank might use her familiar name, when he wasn’t supposed to. And it kept him from calling her Lady Isabel every moment. “What’s the other horse’s name?” she asked, her voice shaking at the edges.
“Molly. She’s fifteen, and a companion mare for fidgety animals. I’ve never seen her make a false step, and she doesn’t like to trot, much less gallop.”
“Are you saying I’m fidgety?”
His mouth curved up at the edges again. “A bit high-strung, perhaps.”
Isabel took a deep breath, holding it for a long moment. A thousand excuses ran through her mind, along with the thought that if she refused to ride today, her father would probably have Sullivan take Zephyr away and she wouldn’t have an excuse to see him any longer. And that now seeing him had less to do with knowing what he might be up to, and more to do with her…liking having him about.
“Will you hold Molly?”
“Absolutely. You have my word.”
“Then I shall ride a horse.”
He hadn’t expected her to agree. Isabel Chalsey had more backbone than he might have previously given her credit for. As she hurried into the house to change into a riding dress, he put the training bridle back on its hook and answered the usual questions about breeding and grooming and training put to him by the stableboys.
Even as he did that and then led Molly around the stable yard a few times to familiarize her with the footing, he was considering Isabel. She still ordered him about, but more as an amusement or an afterthought than because he frightened her. It seemed to be meant to distract him, and everyone else, from realizing…what? That she liked him?
If she’d been some married, bored, worldly lady, he would have simply bedded her once or twice and then gone on his way. He used her kind for amusement and a bit of revenge for being left out of the inner circle, he supposed. Some of the chits were amusing, and he wouldn’t say he hated them, but everyone involved took it for what it was—a night or two’s fun, with nothing more wanted or expected.
Isabel Chalsey was more complicated. If she’d been some parson’s daughter, or even a baron’s youngest or some such thing, a union between them would have been possible, if not popular. But she was the only daughter of a marquis.
Sullivan shook himself. Union? Where the devil had that come from? It had been several delicious kisses, a handful of enjoyable conversations, and some heated thoughts. And whatever images his mind might conjure, her lineage and the circumstances of his birth would never change.
She emerged from the house, and his breathing stilled. He hadn’t known she even owned a riding outfit, but by God she did—and she looked…edible in it. Hunter-green and black, it hugged her figure in all the right places, the skirt flaring out over her black riding boots. Sullivan attempted to conjure thoughts of mud and harsh, cold winds, but with her swaying hips and bright, nervous gaze she melted them all away. Christ.
“Well, let’s get on with it before I lose my nerve,” she said, eyeing Molly at his shoulder.
Right. Now was not the time for compliments or drooling or other distractions. Especially as he glanced toward the house to see her parents standing in front of the sitting room window, watching. They looked at least as nervous as Isabel did. Understandable, but with Isabel it could be a problem.
“The worst thing that could possibly happen to you is that you’ll lose your seat and fall in the mud,” he said, leading the mare over to the raised stone mounting block.
“I actually don’t want to hear that, Mr. Waring.”
“I know, but you need to understand that a possibly muddy dress is all you’re facing. And I won’t let even that happen.”
“You have a great deal of confidence in yourself.” She favored him with a smile that was obviously forced. “Not that I wish you to be wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.” He held out his right hand, his left holding Molly by the bridle.
After another hesitation Isabel stepped up onto the block. Steadying herself with his hand, she hopped up into the saddle. The fair skin of her face had paled to an alarming degree, but she stayed where she was. Only her coloring and her fierce grip on his fingers gave away the fact that she was terrified.
Molly’s ears flicked back and forward. “Say something nice to her,” Sullivan instructed. “She’s worried that you don’t like her.”
“She’s worried?” Isabel visibly shook herself. “Good girl, Molly. You’re such a good horse.”
Sullivan continued to be more and more impressed. To most people it would seem like nothing, but he understood fear. And he understood how much courage it took to overcome it. “Very nice,” he said soothingly. “Hold the reins as you practiced, and I’ll walk her about the yard.”
With a tight nod, Isabel took the reins. He doubted a cannonball could blow her hold loose, but since he was doing the guiding, he didn’t comment. Instead, with a slow breath and a quick prayer that everything would proceed precisely as he intended, he led Molly out into the middle of the yard.
Clearly he’d chosen the right horse for her. Used to fearful animals, Molly probably considered Isabel to be just another skittish foal. “How do you feel?” he ventured aloud.
“Good,” Isabel answered tentatively. “It’s very rolly.”
He chuckled. “You should attempt riding a camel. I nearly became ill.”
“You’ve ridden a camel?”
“A Spaniard had several on his land. Interesting animals. They spit, you know. Quite accurately. But you’d have to ask Bram Johns about that.”
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of her patting Molly’s neck with one hand, but he pretended not to notice. Inside, though, he was cheering. Whatever mess she’d caused and could cause for him, these past weeks had been worthwhile ones.
And considering that he’d nearly been shot last night, and not even taking into account his general feelings toward the aristocracy, that was something he’d never expected to admit, even to himself.
“Well done, Tibby,” Lord Darshear called, grinning as he and his wife came outside through the kitchen door.
The marchioness clapped. “You look quite the horsewoman, my dear.”
Sullivan smiled; he couldn’t help it. He’d begun the day late, was going to spend far more than his usual thirty minutes at Chalsey House, and was likely to miss an appointment with Lord Massey as a result. It didn’t matter.
After three complete circles around the yard, he could see her relaxing a little, her back straightening, and her hold on the reins becoming looser. “Do you want to guide her to the step?” he asked.
“How far away are you going to be?”
“Three inches.”
Isabel gathered up the reins again, testing her hold. “Very well. No more than three inches.”
“My aim shall be two.”
He let go of the bridle, falling back half a step to stay even with Isabel in case he needed to pull her from the sidesaddle. She clucked, tugging the reins to the right. Amateurish and tentative, but Molly veered to the right. Good horse.
Once they reached the stone mounting block, he took the reins and looped them through the hitching post ring. Then he lifted his arms and Isabel practically leapt onto his chest, hugging him tightly. “I did it,” she whispered fiercely. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
For the space of a heartbeat he hugged her slender form, then made a show of setting her feet onto the ground. “I only provided the horses. The courage is yours. Congratulations, poppet.”
As she headed over to her parents, Sullivan caught sight of movement by the carriage drive. Oliver stood there, his expression gr
im enough to rust nails. Sullivan allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before he shifted his attention to Tilden’s companions. Isabel’s friend Lady Barbara and another chit stood there with Oliver. As he watched, the two girls whispered to one another and then glanced at him. A cold breeze went up his spine.
Had they seen her embrace him? He had to assume so. And while Oliver wasn’t likely to risk making a row, he had no idea of the loyalty of the chits to Isabel. And he’d never put much faith in the kindness of the aristocracy. Bloody hell.
“Lady Isabel?” he called. “Do you wish me to put up Molly and take Zephyr out for her exercise?”
Surprised, Isabel looked over at Sullivan. He’d never asked her permission for anything before. Then she caught his glance toward the side of the house and followed his gaze. Oh, dear. “Yes, please do,” she returned, leaving her parents in order to go greet her friends.
“That’s not your new mare, is it?” Eloise Rampling asked. “She’s ancient!”
“I haven’t ridden much,” Isabel said defensively. “I wanted a bit more practice before I took on a newly broken animal.”
“But Mr. Waring says he doesn’t break horses,” Barbara put in with an amused smile. “He tames them.”
“He seems to have tamed someone,” Eloise noted.
“Oh, please.” Isabel forced a grin. “Do come inside so I can change. Will you wait, Oliver?”
Lord Tilden stirred. “Yes, of course. If you still wish to go shopping today.”
“I have never passed by an opportunity to go shopping.”
“And neither have I,” Barbara added. “You looked very fine in the saddle, Tibby.”
She sent her friend a grateful smile. “Then come along,” she said aloud. “Cook’s been baking biscuits all morning.” Cook always baked biscuits in the morning, but it sounded like a good distraction. Obviously they’d all seen her hug Sullivan, and the more quickly they forgot about it, the better. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
On the other hand, she’d thanked a man because he’d helped her with something. She hadn’t hugged him because he’d kissed her and she’d enjoyed it. But she still felt as though she’d done something wrong. She snuck a glance back at Sullivan to see him look quickly away from her. This was so much more complicated than her trying to keep an eye on a burglar. It had probably always been more complicated than that.
Chapter 14
Sullivan sat heavily in his overstuffed chair. His damned leg ached, and as soon as Mrs. Howard had set out the platter of ham and potatoes, he’d sent her home. He’d left his snifter of brandy on the mantel, but wasn’t inclined to get up and retrieve it. The fire burning in the hearth made his small front room look cheery. That was not how he felt.
His front door opened. “I came by with two coins for you to give Charon,” Bram drawled, slipping inside and closing the door behind him, “since I assumed you to be dead and ready to cross the River Styx.”
“Why is it that no one ever knocks at my door?” Sullivan asked. “I’m beginning to think I’m surrounded by housebreakers.”
“Birds of a feather. Where’s the brandy?”
“On the end table. And hand over mine, will you?” He gestured at the fireplace.
“You may work for a living, my friend, but you do have good taste in liquor,” Bram said approvingly, lifting the bottle.
“Thank you.”
“So did he shoot you?” Bramwell poured himself a generous amount of the amber liquid, retrieved and handed over Sullivan’s snifter, then dropped into the chair opposite. “He told half of White’s Club that he did. And apparently there was blood.”
“He shot his tree. I caught a splinter.”
Black eyes looked over the rim of the snifter at him. “I know several discreet physicians, if you require mending.”
“No. And thank you for taking eighteen hours to come see whether I was still breathing.”
“I came by this morning.”
Sullivan stiffened a little, taking a sip of brandy to cover it. “Did you?” he said aloud. “I generally notice when you’re present. You being the talkative sort.”
“I saw Dunston’s coach in the yard, and Chalsey’s curricle circling around the back. It all frightened me, so I fled.”
“Ah. It had nothing to do with your dislike of sticky personal entanglements, then?”
“What did Dunston want?” Ignoring the last comment, Bram stretched his boots out toward the fire. It was early yet for him, and he was dressed for an evening out, but if he wasn’t in a hurry, neither was Sullivan. His leg hurt, but other things troubled him even more.
He realized Bram expected an answer, and shook himself. “He ordered me to stop the thievery nonsense and stay clear of Oliver and his marriage prospects.”
“Was that why Darshear came by, as well? That’s a bit brutish of them to double up like that.”
Sullivan hesitated. He trusted Bram, but his friend also had a cynical streak a mile wide. “It wasn’t Darshear. It was his offspring.”
Bram sat forward. “All of them?”
“Douglas and Isabel. They’d heard the rumor that your father had murdered a thief, and wanted to know if it was me.”
“‘They’?” his friend repeated.
“Apparently Tibby told Douglas about me.”
“You know, my feelings are hurt. I thought this thief business was going to be our secret, and now half of London knows.”
“Very amusing. And I’m not giving you any of the duke’s cigars.”
“That was part of our agreement, Sullivan.”
“He shot at me. Get your own cigars.”
With a snort, Bram pushed back to his feet. “Have it your way, then. I’m off to be charming at the Fordham soiree. The duke’s supposed to be there—did you dispose of that damned fertility idol?”
“I couldn’t carry it, but it’s now cockless. And that bit, you can have.”
“God, no. For once, though, I’m looking forward to conversation with Levonzy. I shall be very sympathetic.”
Sullivan watched Bram walk to the door. Frowning, he debated whether to say anything else. Damnation. “Bram?”
Lord Bram paused with the door half open. “Hm?”
“Keep an eye on Lady Isabel, will you? I put her up on a horse today, and she was so pleased that she…hugged me. Some of her friends saw us.”
The door closed again. “You’re the devil of a puzzle, Sully,” Bram said after a moment. “You’ll talk about thieving and being shot at, but you leave out the bit where the girl—”
“It was completely innocent,” he interrupted, craning his head to look back in the direction of the door.
“Unlike the kiss.”
“Kisses.”
“Bloody hell.” Bram returned to the chair and sat again. “I’m not one to advise on matters of the heart or the bedchamber, but…is it your intention to ruin this girl?”
“No! Of course not. Why would you even ask that?”
“You haven’t been overly fond of my breed, ever. And less so since I dragged you back from the Peninsula.”
“Which you shouldn’t have done.”
“Yes, I should have, since you joined only because I was forced to it.”
“That’s a rumor you began,” Sullivan said, stifling a grin.
“Sometimes rumors are true. Which is why I have to wonder whether this business with Isabel Chalsey is some twisted kind of revenge against Tilden.”
“Tibby never did anything to me but witness one of my ill deeds. And I’m not mad enough to fool myself into thinking…anything….” He trailed off.
“Be careful, Sully. I can only save your life so many times before it becomes tiresome.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Watch her tonight, will you, Bram?”
“I watch everything.”
As Bram left, Sullivan sat back to sip his brandy again. Whatever his position in the world, he was accustomed to being responsible for his own destiny and actions—and no one
else’s. Now, though, he abruptly had someone else whose well-being concerned him. And all he could do was hope that Isabel’s friends were truly that, and wait until morning.
And think of her for every moment between now and then.
“How is your head?” Lady Darshear asked, putting her palm against Isabel’s cheek.
“I’m fine, Mama,” Isabel replied, elbowing Phillip to gain a bit more room on the coach seat.
“If you say so.”
In truth, Isabel wasn’t certain how she felt. Feigning an aching head had been silly, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that something was wrong. Her outing with her friends had been perfectly enjoyable but for a few whispers and giggles where she’d been left out of the amusement. She couldn’t remember being excluded even from the most inane conversation before, but it was also entirely possible that she was looking for something that wasn’t there. For something to be wrong when it wasn’t.
Barbara had congratulated her for riding Molly, but only Barbara knew how difficult it had been for her to do so. Eloise Rampling and Oliver had said nothing, and no one had commented about her embracing Sullivan. Perhaps they understood that it had been perfectly innocent, as had her parents. Or even better, perhaps they hadn’t seen it at all.
Because it hadn’t been completely innocent. She wouldn’t have embraced Phipps or Delvin for helping her. Or Oliver. One of her family, yes, but not with the same breathless…joy she felt in the presence of Sullivan Waring.
“Do you remember the Fordham ball last year?” her mother asked. “Your dance card was nearly obliterated, it filled so quickly.”
Isabel chuckled. “And Phillip was nearly blinded, so many cards were thrown at him.”
“I can’t help being irresistible,” her brother drawled, “though I’m not so pretty as Tibby.”
“Thank goodness for that. I would be terribly jealous.” In truth she did feel pretty tonight. She’d worn her newest gown, a deep burgundy with lace at the neck and sleeves, ribbons of the same color twined through her blonde hair. If not for that nagging sense of trouble in the back of her mind, tonight would have been nearly perfect.
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